Friday, November 21, 2014

the quiet (throwback)

...the quiet...
April 19, 2009 at 10:22pm

[We are woven into the earth,
a seamless portrait of all the
collected echelons of history,
and memory. ]

...the quiet...

We are few quiet bones and breath, wrought with heartstrings and reverberating with utterances of a time not unlike ours, only before anyone ever admitted to be a child of a love that never tells.

"They tell me it's just a myth," she says, a long finger alternatively tempting the rims of separate glasses of iced tea and peach schnapps. She had a blue corduroy jacket draped over the back of her chair. I remained speechless. Her eyes, blue, but not unlike the fluorescent white of light. This night, the gravity of everything had tinted them slightly grey.

When we spoke, we spoke in practiced turns. We sang a funeral procession of verbs and predicates into the smoky air, swirling with motes of silent breath that once desired to be words. We only broke the silence to let anyone else that might be listening know that we were still in the room, somewhere.

The air crackled with the density of silence, the sheer weight of clarity birthing our new thoughts. Our new, bristling clarion.

And my eyes, my mind, my heart. They trailed over collarbones and jawlines, folds, curls and tresses of hair, glossy but lost in the color of the pale light, followed arms to fingers, to glass, back up to teeth and quiet lips.

We were alone. Alone under a million beams of moonlight. Under a million beautiful reflected faces of the sun, come to witness us in our surrender. To the quiet, the warmth of the silence in us both. The only place we could think out everything we'd never tell one another.

Everything we'd always felt.

She steepled her fingers over an ever-emptier glass, inhaled a breath so subtly as to speak, but the words. We both knew the words would never cross her lips. I passed a hand over the table, running my fingers along its edge, the honest things weaving a spell across the tattered, fraying ends.

In the night, the faintly lighted place, we were ghosts. Picture-reel effigies. Silent, colorless bodies. But the movement meant everything. Ever moving. Ever breathing. Together. In the calm. The rhythmic sounds of us, these husks housing hearts of ours.

Maybe, the sound was my own. Or maybe, the sound was two.

There's no way of knowing, under the starless sky. Children of a love that never tells.

In this, our silence.